But I can’t anymore. It’s too heavy. If I don’t let some of it go, it’s going to pull me down and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to recover.

I grab onto Jasper’s shirt, twisting the fabric around my fists so tight that my fingers ache—anchoring myself to him like he’s a lifeboat. And when I feel like I have a strong enough hold, I let it out.

Even to my own ears, it’s unrecognizable. It’s ripped from the very bottom of my soul, etched in pain and hurt, wrapped in love and grief. It’s horrifying and it’s beautiful, the sound of love that has fought to live on well after a person’s final days.

I’ve battled so hard to ignore the pain, trying to patch up the gaping hole losing my grandma left in my life, that I didn’t realize I was only feeding the hurt. Even though I feel like I’m being ripped in half, something deep down inside starts to mend.

And for the first time in a year, I feel a hope that while I know the pain will never go away, I might be able to walk with it instead of struggling against it.

Jasper holds me tight, whispering words that I hear but can’t understand through it all. His arms never loosen as he absorbs my sobs and feels my tremors as my body succumbs to grief a year in the making.

When the sobs finally begin to fade, my body feels as though it was just wrung dry of every tear, every emotion. I feel like I climbed a mountain. I’ve never felt so exhausted in my entire life.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Jasper whispers into my ear before settling his lips against the top of my head. I nod into his chest but make no move to get up. I don’t know if I have enough energy to make it across my apartment.

But it doesn’t matter.

Before I can find out, Jasper adjusts his grip, keeping one arm behind my back and dropping the other beneath my thighs.

He carries me to my room and lays me on my bed, gently draping my comforter over me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open if I tried, but in the distance, I hear the faint rustling of papers and distant footsteps before the mattress dips behind me and Jasper pulls my back tight to his front.

“Thank you,” I whisper into the darkness. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but thank you.”

“Don’t ever apologize for that, Drew.” His long fingers flex into the softness of my hip. “Thank you for feeling safe enough with me to allow me to be here for you.”